


A Week in the Life

by VeloxVoid



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Growth, Hurt/Comfort, Wholesome, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27106696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeloxVoid/pseuds/VeloxVoid
Summary: Cyril is an overlooked member of the Garreg Mach staff. A snippet into his life, however, reveals some wholesome interactions with his fellow students.
Relationships: Cyril & Lysithea von Ordelia, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 87
Kudos: 64
Collections: Cyril Week 2020





	1. Tiny Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BirdMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdMonster/gifts), [celicalms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celicalms/gifts).



> Each chapter of this story contributes to a day of the Cyril Week 2020 event!
> 
> If you'd like to follow me on Twitter to keep up with more of my Cyril ramblings, I'm [@VeloxVoid](https://twitter.com/VeloxVoid)!
> 
> Cyril is my favourite character in the Fire Emblem series, so thank you so much to the mods who worked to put this event together :) And thank you to Rai and Bushra, for always putting up with me and helping me with this!

* * *

Sunday, 10th of the Verdant Rain Moon 

* * *

The greenhouse was a nice place to be. Its heat was humid — thick and damp and comforting as it embraced Cyril’s skin. The sun’s rays beat down on him through the glass ceiling, hot and unforgiving, and the countless plants around him soaked them up, effusing their earthy scents.

In a way, Cyril was reminded of his homeland. Fódlan was cold even in the depths of summer, a constant chill lying beneath the breeze, but Almyra had been warm.

Cyril basked beneath it, tilting his face up towards the ceiling to feel the midday heat hit his face. The watering can in his hand felt hot, the metal searing his skin, but he almost didn’t care. He liked this. This reminder of home — the home he’d not visited in so many years, yet longed for so dearly—

“Having a nice time?”

A voice from behind Cyril made him emit a little yelp, and he held the watering can close to his chest as he wheeled around.

The leader of the Black Eagles stood behind him. With a hand on her hip, she looked down at him with a cocked head, silvery-white hair glinting off the sun in a way that looked almost ethereal. She looked how Cyril imagined a god would look — glowing.

“Miss von Hresvelg,” he simply said, feeling a little foolish beneath her piercing lilac gaze. He didn’t know her first name, but something inside him told him that even if he did, he shouldn’t refer to her by it. She seemed too high-up — too important — for him to address her in such a way.

To his surprise, she gave a little chuckle, tossing a lock of her platinum hair over her shoulder. “Please, call me Edelgard,” she said.

He pressed his lips together. A nice name. “Okay then… Edelgard, can I help you at all…?”

“No,” she replied lightly. And when her lips curled, they did so in a nice way. In a friendly, amused way — like she’d just been told a joke. Not mocking, nor demeaning. Just… nice. “I’m just wondering if you’re doing alright,” she said.

“Me?” Cyril felt his brow furrow. “I’m fine. Just watering the plants.”

“Are you?” Edelgard asked. “Looked to me like you were sunbathing.”

A heat flushed his cheeks. “It’s hot today.”

“Indeed it is. So you were basking in it?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure I’d say basking, more like… taking a break.”

"Well then, that makes two of us. The rest of the Eagles have been fishing all day. There's only so much I can take."

The smile that overcame Cyril’s face was sheepish. Edelgard seemed more humble than he'd expected. While her hands were on her hips and she looked down at him through where she'd raised her chin, she was nice. He hadn't expected it. Her academy uniform was spotless, her hair immaculate, and the two small bows tied into it tousled in the slight breeze blowing through the greenhouse’s open window. They matched her eyes — a dusky, light purple colour. _Lilac._

“Like the flower,” he muttered suddenly.

Edelgard raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

Without another word, Cyril turned, placing down the watering can and crossing to one corner of the greenhouse. Shrubs grew here, some of them flowering. In the very end was the lilac — the shrub that sprouted from the spongy earth with dark green flowers, countless clusters of the pastel purple flowers blooming beautifully from them.

Cyril grabbed the pruning clippers from his gardening belt and cut one of the lilac clusters at its stem, leaving it sitting delicately in his palm. By now, Edelgard had joined at his side, peering over his shoulder with a sort of curious wonderment. Cyril turned to her, looking at her perfectly combed hair, before he reached up and tucked the stem of the lilac behind her ear.

Edelgard blinked at him in surprise. She turned to the glass beside them, where her reflection smiled back at her, lilac petals behind her ear matching both her eyes and bows perfectly.

“What are these?” she asked, adjusting her pale tresses as she gazed some more.

“They’re lilac,” he told her. “The colour reminded me of your bows. And your eyes.”

Turning back around to him, a childish grin had lit up the face of the Black Eagles’ leader. “It’s beautiful! Thank you, Cyril!”

That took him aback. “You know my name?”

“Of course I do. You’re the one who keeps things running so smoothly around here, are you not?”

Cyril shuffled, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks once more. “Well, I’m not sure about that.”

“Of course you are.” Edelgard gave him a nod and a smile, something behind her eyes looking more determined. “Thank you for the lilac. I’ll have to come to you when I need to accessorise more often.”

“I’m not sure about that either,” he told her.

After sharing another giggle, Edelgard extended one hand out to Cyril's, and they shook. It was a formal gesture — one he'd never been offered before. “Enjoy your sunbathing,” she said.

He watched her leave — head held high, chest forward, her very gait filled with purpose and authority. In a way, Cyril found he envied that. Envied her innate power. At least he’d made her happy today — brought some sort of childish delight to her otherwise-mature demeanor.

He looked back to the watering can, balanced on the edge of one wall, and sighed to himself.

“Oh, man.” He needed to get back to work.


	2. Growth

* * *

Monday, 11th of the Verdant Rain Moon

* * *

“He had… become a… kuh-night? Kuh…”

“Knight,” Lysithea said gently. “The _‘K’_ is silent, so it’s pronounced the same as _‘night’.”_

Cyril’s brow furrowed. “Why is it there if it’s meant to be silent?”

The girl sitting next to him cocked her head. She merely gave a _‘hm’_ of confusion, looking down at the book that sat between them on her dormitory’s desk. “I’m not sure. Language is just… like that, sometimes.”

“Fódlani sucks,” Cyril sulked. The words on the page — a story of a young boy becoming a powerful warrior — melded into one big black blotch the longer he looked at them. Reading made his brain hurt — made him want to do nothing more than curl up in bed and sleep. 

But he needed to practice.

“I mean, you’re not wrong,” Lysithea giggled. “Lots of words have silent letters, really! Like ‘knife’ has a silent _‘K’_ at the start too.”

Cyril forced himself to pay attention. “It does? How is it spelled, then?”

Lysithea leaned over her desk and pawed through a stack of papers piled neatly in the corner. They were surrounded by bottles of ink, quills, textbooks: all manners of school equipment. Cyril’s lips tightened as a shy smile worked its way onto them. Lysithea was so organised. Her room was so tidy, everything in its place. He loved organisation.

When at last she found a blank scrap of parchment, she dipped a pure-white quill into the ink and began to scratch a word onto it.

**_K N I F E_ **

“Kuh-niff-ee,” Cyril said bluntly.

Lysithea erupted in a giggle. “No!”

“You’re tellin’ me that’s how _‘knife’_ is supposed to be spelled?” he asked her.

“That _is_ how it’s spelled!”

“I dunno, Lysithea. Looks fake to me.”

She laughed some more.

“What’s that _‘E’_ at the end all about, anyway?” Cyril asked. “Ya don’t pronounce that. So why’s it there?”

“Huh,” Lysithea narrowed her eyes at the word. “I guess you’re right.”

“It shouldn’t be there,” he said.

“Okay then,” Lysithea smirked, “how would _you_ spell it?”

Cyril took the quill from her, and scrawled onto the parchment. He held it in his left hand — his strongest hand — yet still the letters came out wobbly. They looked like a baby had written them — especially in comparison with Lysithea’s beautiful swirls, but she seemed able to read it nonetheless.

**_N E Y E F_ **

Lysithea frowned as he looked back up to her. “Cyril, that says neigh-eff.”

He smiled. “It quite clearly says _‘knife’._ See? You taught me _‘eye’_ is _E-Y-E._ And there’s an _‘eye’_ sound in _‘knife’!”_

Lysithea blinked down at the parchment, turning her head each way as if to observe the word from all angles. “Wow. I… can’t argue with that.”

They both giggled at each other. “I feel like I’m learning,” he told her. “Even if I’m not _actually_ right.”

“You really are learning!” Lysithea turned towards him with a smile on her face, her eyes lighting up. “Good job, Cyril, you’re doing so well!”

And Cyril felt his heart flutter in his chest — in the way it had done so many times before. It happened whenever Lysithea von Ordelia gave him that smile. Lysithea, with her soft pale lips crowning beautiful straight teeth, her eyes the colour of an Almyran sunset, white rays of sun glistening through a pastel pink sky… 

She was always so beautiful. Even in the academy’s uniform, she stood out of the crowd. Her hair was pearlescent; in a way, Cyril supposed he was reminded of Edelgard. Lysithea’s was nicer, though. It was thick and luscious — when she walked, it trailed behind her in the breeze almost like a veil. She was amazing. Smart, powerful, pretty...

And she had complimented _him._

Cyril felt heat rush to his cheeks, hoping desperately it didn’t show in a blush. “Oh, man.”

She giggled a little. “What? What’s up?”

“Nothin’, I promise. Should we… keep reading?”

Blinking at him through her fascinating eyes, Lysithea gave a shy smile as she slid one of her hands across the desk, gently wrapping her fingers around Cyril’s own. His heart made somersaults against his ribs, and he looked down to keep the furious blush off of his face. He held her hand back tightly, feeling her gaze on the side of his face.

“Sure,” she said, her voice smiling. “Let’s keep reading.”


	3. Class Change

* * *

Tuesday, 12th of the Verdant Rain Moon

* * *

Mercedes sat down suddenly at Cyril’s side, scooting along the bench until their shoulders were pressed together. He looked up at her from where his hands were pressed together in his lap, wringing anxiously.

“Are you ready?” the woman asked him, voice playful and light.

She was only trying to comfort him, he knew, but her words did nothing to quell the anxiety rising inside Cyril’s chest. Instead of feeling reassured, he merely felt more sick. He played with the hem of his shirt, feeling the rough, scratchy fabric beneath his fingertips, and tried to listen to the sounds of other students in the classroom around him. 

_ “Who do you think they’ll call in first?”; “I hope they test stringing bows — I’m really good at that…”; “I should have studied more!” _

Cyril felt bile rise to his throat.  _ Was _ he ready?

“Not at all,” he confessed to Mercedes. “I’ve never been less ready for anything in my life.”

To his surprise, she chuckled. “Don’t be so hard on yourself!” she chirped. “You’ll do fine, I know you will.”

“I dunno, Mercie,” Cyril shrugged, feeling the weight of the world upon his shoulders. “I’ve not been doin’ so good with it recently.”

“Well, you’ve trained for this test, haven’t you?”

_ Training. _ While Cyril  _ had _ trained in archery, joining Shamir’s classes for guidance, he hadn’t been doing very well at all. He wanted to become an Archer — to have a title aside from being just a Commoner in the Officer’s Academy’s eyes — but he wasn’t sure if he was ready yet.

All he could do was try.

He was just thankful that the first test was a practical one. If it had been a written test, he wouldn’t have even bothered trying. Even with Lysithea’s help — their evening meetings in her room every night — he was still struggling with his literacy. Perhaps if he was learning Almyran, he wouldn’t have been so bad. In Fódlani, however, he felt hopeless.

Cyril sighed. “Have you done any of these class exams, Mercie?”

“I have,” she responded. “I took one a couple of weeks ago to become a Priest.”

“So you passed, then?”

“I did.” She gave a calm smile.

Cyril’s nerves were not quelled. “Were ya nervous beforehand?”

She thought for a moment. “Not particularly. I wanted badly to become a Priest, but I didn’t see any need to be nervous about it.”

“... How?”

The woman’s eyes — such an incredible violet hue they reminded Cyril of dusky skies — looked up towards the ceiling, and she placed one fingertip against her lips. “Hmm… I guess I just thought that, even if I did fail, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. The only downsides are having to study more and retaking the test.”

Cyril looked at Mercedes for a long moment, considering her words. “Didn’t you mind about… failure?”

“Nobody would judge you for failing the test, Cyril.” Her voice became gentle, taking on the same tone as it did when she spoke to sick patients. It soothed Cyril; calmed him. “Everybody fails sometimes, but something small like a low grade on a test isn’t anything to beat yourself up over.”

“You think?”

“I was 22 before I enrolled at the Officer’s Academy,” Mercedes said lightly. “I was in the Royal School of Sorcery for… a while. Failure isn’t the end of the world. Everyone does it, and the worst that happens is you have to retake the test. So don’t stress too much, okay?”

Cyril felt himself smile. “Thank you, Mercie…”

The moment was interrupted, however, by a voice cutting through the chatter all around them.

“Cyril Azim?” announced a woman from the front of the room. She looked around the desks full of students.

_ The examiner.  _ Cyril’s heart dropped to his stomach.

Mercedes turned to him, rubbing his arm comfortingly. “Best of luck,” she smiled.

“Why am I first?” Cyril panicked, feeling sweat beginning to bead upon his forehead. “I’m never first for anything!”

“I think they call people alphabetically.”

_ Alphabetically...? _

Mercedes gave a soft smile. “Based on where their surname comes in the alphabet. Since yours begins with  _ A, _ they put you at the front.”

“Oh, man…”

The examiner called out again. “Is Cyril Azim here?”

“I am,” Cyril responded feebly, standing from where he sat at the back of the room. The examiner smiled at him and headed through a door, leaving him to weave his way sadly around each table, feeling every pair of eyes upon him.

“Cyril?” Mercedes whispered as he passed. She gave him an encouraging smile — one that seemed to light up the air around her in a golden glow. “Do your best, and you’ll be just fine!”

He couldn’t resist giving her a smile in return. “Thanks, Mercie.”

As he strode through the rest of the hall, following the woman behind the foreboding figure of the double doors, Cyril puffed out his chest.  _ Just do your best, _ he told himself, hands curling into fists.

Yet when the doors closed behind him, and he faced a room empty aside from a wooden target dummy and the examiner, his chest began to hurt.

_ Fear. _ The fear of failure — of disappointing Shamir, and Rhea, and Mercie. The fear of never being good enough for anything; of being useless.

_ Failure isn’t the end of the world, _ Mercedes’ voice reminded him.  _ Everyone does it, and the worst that happens is you have to retake the test. _

“You have ten arrows,” the examiner announced. “Each shot will be given a grade, with a higher score for hitting a target point.”

Cyril knew about target points — the places on the human body which would receive most damage if struck. He squirmed thinking about shooting somebody in the head.

“There will be five minutes on the clock — your time begins now.”


	4. Archery

* * *

Wednesday, 13th of the Verdant Rain Moon

* * *

Cyril released his arrow, hearing the  _ twang _ of the string and the rush of the fletching cutting the air. His aim was straight, and his arrow flew powerfully through the Training Grounds, biting into the circular wooden target he stood opposite.

He missed the outer ring by a good few centimetres.

“Man,” he muttered to himself, lowering the bow and frowning. “No wonder I failed the Archer’s test.”

Ashe sidled up to him. “Don’t worry, Cyril,” he said tentatively. “I failed my first Archer’s test, too.”

Cyril turned to him — Ashe Duran, the friendly Blue Lion boy with dusky grey hair — and furrowed his brow. “You failed the test?”

“You don’t have to say it so loud,” Ashe admitted, a slight blush tinging his bashful smile.

“Oh, sorry.”

“What’re you two gossiping about?” Shamir’s steely tone sounded from behind them, and the two boys jumped in fright to see her watching, eagle-eyed. “You’re here to shoot. Save the tattle for the dining hall.”

“Sorry, Shamir!” Cyril gave her a little bow while Ashe stuttered out his own apology. They both turned back to their targets.

Ashe strung his bow. “But, yeah. I took the test last week and failed.”

“Oh, man…” Cyril fumbled retrieving an arrow from his quiver. “I’m sorry about that.”

“No no, it’s okay! I just overheard you…”

“Yeah...” Cyril narrowed his eyes at the target. “I should really stop muttering to myself.”

Ashe chuckled. “You can always mutter to me!” He released his arrow and winced as it hit the outer circle.

“Nah, I don’t wanna bug you. It’s just complaining about how badly I messed up in the test.”

Ashe made a little groan. “Gosh, me too. My hands were shaking so much I almost shot the examiner!”

They shared a laugh at that; it was a sentiment Cyril could relate to — screwing up that badly.

“I know what you mean. Somehow my first arrow ended up in the floor. I swear I musta blacked out when shooting that one.”

Ashe laughed heartily, only pressing his lips together once Shamir turned to look at them. When he spoke again, he did so in a whisper. “I’m glad you understand! I thought it was only me who struggled!”

Cyril shook his head. “No way. You think I’d still be here spending time in this class if I’d passed the exam? I could be doing Rhea’s chores right now.”

The chuckles that they both erupted into then could not be stifled.

“Anything you kids would like to share with the class?” Shamir rounded on them with folded arms.

“No, Shamir!” chirped Ashe. “We’re very sorry!”

To their surprise, the woman’s lips curled in the corners, and she gave them a wink. “C’mon. Get shooting.”

Cyril focussed on the target once more, aiming the tip of his arrow at the small bullseye, and for once allowed himself to breathe.

It wasn’t just him. Ashe Duran, someone he looked up to, struggled with archery too.

He wasn’t alone.

Cyril let himself smile as he stilled himself, and felt his sparrow’s feather fletching brush his cheek as he loosed his weapon.

It sailed through the air before burrowing itself into the centre of the target. Out of instinct, he threw both arms up in the air, clutching his bow in a fierce grip. “Did I just—!?” He blinked at his arrow again; it didn’t sit square in the centre of the bullseye — it had only just managed to hit it on its left side — but at least it  _ had _ hit it. “I did it!”

“You did!” cried Ashe.

Shamir came over to them, glancing between Cyril and the target with an expression of sly satisfaction. “Nice work,” she drawled, and reached out to ruffle Cyril’s curls. “Now do it again.”

Cyril couldn’t help but laugh. “Really?” he asked.

“There’s no time to rest on the battlefield. You shoot someone in the head, and their ally is making sure  _ you’re _ next on their hit list.” Shamir grasped both of Cyril’s shoulders and pulled him upright. She pointed to Ashe’s target, the one next to his. “Quick! They’re coming at you on horseback, brandishing their lance. What do you do?”

Cyril loaded his bow, pulled back the string, and breathed deeply. Within a second, he had released the arrow, which hit the target’s outermost ring.

Shamir cocked her head each way. “Eh. You just shot their shoulder. They’re most likely wearing pauldrons. And now…” She poked him in the chest with a hard finger. “You’ve been skewered.”

Cyril swallowed hard.

It was then, however, that he heard the whiz of an arrow from his side. Ashe’s bowstring still thrummed, and Cyril followed his aim to the target; silently, he had shot an arrow straight into his target’s centre.

Shamir breathed a laugh through her nostrils. “Ashe just saved your hide. Nice shooting, kid.”

Ashe gave her a little bow, a blush shining through his freckles. When at last she moved on from them, crossing the Training Grounds to inspect her other students, Ashe gave an anxious sort of giggle. “I think you’d make a great teammate on the battlefield, Cyril.”

“Thanks,” Cyril responded, unsure of how to react. He wasn’t used to compliments. “I hope it doesn’t come to that though, if I’m honest.”

“Oh! Of course! I mean, I’m sure you’d be a great teammate outside of the battlefield as well!”

Cyril nodded. “I think you would, too.”

“Then… perhaps we could train together, from now on?” Ashe suggested, his emerald eyes darting around anxiously. “You have good eyesight. Perhaps we could test it.”

It was as though the sunshine had broken through the clouds; Cyril hadn’t even realised how empty his chest had felt — how much of a dull ache had manifested inside him — but at Ashe’s suggestion, it cleared. He felt… wanted.

“I’d love that,” he said, “Thanks, Ashe!”

And Ashe nodded. “It’d be my honour.”


	5. Cats

* * *

Thursday, 14th of the Verdant Rain Moon

* * *

How did the larder always manage to get so  _ dirty!? _

Cyril swept flour from beneath the room’s wooden shelves, accidentally bringing with it some disgusting balls of long-expired food, furry mould clinging to its surface. A thought crossed through his mind — a thought he’d once heard Shamir mutter upon becoming exasperated.

_ I don’t get paid enough for this. _

Well, he didn’t get paid at all.

He brushed the mess into one corner along with the rest of the dust and refuse, and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

A sound behind him made him turn — made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Something was in the larder with him. He heard the metallic clack of cans hitting each other — the creak of the wooden shelves protesting beneath the weight of something moving.

Cyril’s blood ran cold. He gripped onto the broom handle tighter, holding it out in front of him

Somebody barrelled through the larder’s door behind him.  _ “Aha!”  _ they screamed.

Cyril let out a yelp. He thrust forward the tip of his broom, only to jab it into the chest of Caspar von Bergliez.

_ “Ow!  _ What the—!?” The boy rubbed his chest, peering through the gloomy lamplight of the room into Cyril’s face. “Cyril?” he asked.

“Caspar!” exclaimed Cyril, lowering his makeshift weapon.

“What’re you doing in here!?” Caspar looked around the shelves in a hurry. “Are you looking for it too!?”

Cyril followed his eyeline. “Looking for what?”

“You know! The—”

“The monster!?” Cyril cried.

The face Caspar gave him was dumbfounded. “Wh…? Wait… There’s a monster in here!?” He braced himself, holding out his fists as if prepared to throw punches.

“Well, I heard something!” Cyril told him, brandishing his broom once again. “Something was creeping around the shelves!”

Caspar suddenly barked a laugh. “Oh, man! That’s not a monster!”

Cyril felt his cheeks burn at once. “It’s… not?”

“No! That’s what I’m looking for—!”

They were cut off by the creaking sounds again, their eyes both snapping to the back left corner of the larder.

“There it is,” whispered Caspar. Yet just as he spoke, a bag of sugar was jolted forwards, spilling granules onto the floor. “Aha!” he yelled again, just as Cyril grabbed onto his own hair in anguish:

_ “It’s here!” _

“It’s a cat!” Caspar cried as he leapt forwards, bolting through the room to the shelf. Countless more ingredients fell to the floor: a box of nuts, a can of preserved milk, a bunch of vanilla pods. Caspar dodged them all before he pounced, adding to the destruction as he pulled from out of the shelf…

A dusty-looking cat. It flailed and hissed, but Caspar held it up in the air as if it were a trophy. “I got it! I got it!”

“A… a cat!?” Cyril blinked at him in disbelief, watching the little animal hiss and lash its tail. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t dust that covered its black and white fur, but flour. The same flour Cyril had spent the last twenty minutes trying to clean up. “That’s the thing that’s causing all this mess!?”

“Yeah—!” Caspar made to tell him, but the creature slashed downwards with one paw, its claws digging into the skin of his hand.  _ “Ow! Sothis—!” _

He dropped the cat. It landed deftly on all fours before running to the door, to where slivers of sunlight shone through the slight opening Caspar had left upon his entrance.

“Get it!” Caspar shouted. “Get it, Cyril! Close the door!”

Too late. The creature dashed through the crack in the door and out of sight.

Cyril turned to Caspar, watching him suck on his wound with a piteous expression. “Caspar, I’m so sorry—” he started, but the other boy waved him off.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said into his hand. “I’ll get it next time, though!”

Shame swirled inside of Cyril’s stomach. “I’m really sorry. I totally messed that up.”

Caspar raised an eyebrow. “What’re you talking about? That wasn’t your fault!”

_ Huh? _ “But I let it get away.”

Confusing him even more, Caspar began to smile. “That can’t be helped! Now we just have to come up with a plan of how to trap it. Ashe is in on this too! We can recruit him as a look-out—!”

Cyril didn’t understand. “You aren’t… upset?”

“What?” Caspar stepped over to him and clapped him on the shoulder with surprising force. “No way! I’m the one who let go of it! These things happen, so don’t sweat it. Now, about this plan...”

As he continued to speak, making almost violent hand gestures every now and then, Cyril could do nothing but watch. He had messed something up royally — been given one measly instruction and yet still failed to follow it. Even so, Caspar wasn’t annoyed with him in the slightest. Didn’t blame him, wasn’t making him pay…

Cyril didn’t get it. The young Black Eagle grinned at him with shining sapphire eyes while recruiting him into his cat-capturing plan. When at last he’d finished speaking, he grabbed onto Cyril’s hand with one of his own.

“Now, c’mon! We have a mission to accomplish!”

A childish smile worked its way onto Cyril’s lips. This was what he wanted; to be included in somebody else’s games — welcomed with open arms. Yet, now that he finally had the opportunity, he couldn’t.

“Sorry, Caspar,” he said almost wistfully, “I gotta clean all o’ this up.” He gestured to the sugar spilled all over the floor — the countless other foodstuffs all around.

Caspar blinked at the mess. “You’re kidding! This is gonna be way more fun!” He squeezed Cyril’s hand harder. “We got a cat culprit to catch! Come help me find Ashe!”

And as he felt himself being dragged to the door, one thought ran through Cyril’s mind.

_ Screw it. _

He let the broomstick fall from his other hand and heard it clatter to the cobblestone floor beneath. With joy making his heart pound harder, he followed Caspar from the larder and out into whatever adventures lay for him beyond.

He could clean up later.


	6. Celestial

* * *

Friday, 15th of the Verdant Rain Moon

* * *

Cyril preferred the sun to the moon. The sun meant heat and light and a day filled with tasks for him to busy himself with. The sun reminded him of Almyra — how it would beat down upon the land each day, unrelenting but welcome.

The moon, on the other hand, meant quiet. It meant darkness, loneliness, being trapped alone with only his thoughts for company for hours on end, until the sun would rise again. The isolation of night scared him.

And yet here he was, looking out into the night sky above, dyed a deep, inky blue by the sun’s retreat. Yet tonight, the moon didn’t seem too bad. It hung swollen in the sky, huge and white and still; almost like a guardian, it sat in place, staring down at Garreg Mach surrounded by the sentinel stars. They all scintillated as if winking at him — taunting him to play.

He sighed. The day had been long and gruelling; cleaning the floors was his least favourite task. Yet while he  _ was _ exhausted, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep quite yet. Once again, a thought had slithered into his brain and nested there, and it wouldn’t give him peace.

He didn’t like doing this work. Sometimes, he wished he could have just one day off to himself, to  _ rest _ . To be a child, or a student, or anything other than a servant. That was all he wanted.

Thus, he had crept up to the cathedral before bed, finding it eerily empty. The balcony doors had beckoned to him. He had opened them, stepped out into the cool night air, and he had searched the skies. They were endless — free. Unending and unburdened, with lands spanning for miles below just waiting to be explored. And  _ oh, _ how he wanted to explore them—

“Oh,” Cyril heard from behind him, and he turned to see the familiar form of Marianne in the doorway. She had clasped her hands together, her hair now loose and tousling slightly in the wind. While she still wore her academy uniform, she looked tired: as if she were about to fall asleep. “Sorry, I…”

“Sorry, Marianne,” Cyril said, standing to one side of the balcony. “I didn’t mean to make ya jump.”

“No, that’s okay,” she murmured back, looking at him through heavy eyelids. She seemed a little anxious — not an uncommon occurrence — but stepped up to his side either way, placing delicate hands upon the stone balcony. “I didn’t realise you liked to stargaze too.”

Cyril cocked his head. “Stargaze?”

Marianne nodded. “I like to stargaze here if I’m having trouble sleeping. I find looking out at the world brings me a sort of peace.”

While he’d only spoken to the young woman a handful of times, Cyril knew he liked her. She was always gentle with him, thanking him for the work he did around the monastery and for being so good to Claude. While Cyril was never quite sure what she meant with the last part, he accepted her thanks readily; it wasn’t often he received any.

He looked back out at the sky, at the blue blanket littered with stars. It reminded him of cleaning the tables after dinnertime — the dark polished wood would always be sprinkled with an untidy mess of salt granules glinting beneath the candlelight. He cocked his head each way; the stars were interesting for sure, but he didn’t see any point in  _ gazing _ at them.

“How d’ya find it peaceful?” Cyril asked, searching the skies. “If anything, it stresses me out.”

“The night sky makes you stressed?” Marianne sounded concerned.

Cyril shrugged. “Kinda. It’s just that I know I’ll never get to explore it. All I want is to be out there, free like a bird, but I can’t.”

He was met with silence. Marianne bowed her head for a moment, before speaking quietly. “You have a lot of talent, Cyril.”

He fixed his eyes on her, his mind reeling at once. “Huh…?”

“You have good eyes. Iron will. A fierce, enviable loyalty…” She blinked suddenly and clutched her hands to her chest. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to overstep—”

“You’re not overstepping,” Cyril assured her. “What do you mean, I’m talented?”

She looked at him for a moment longer before her eyes drifted once again to the stars. “I just feel… perhaps your talents could be used for something more. You’re an incredible asset to Garreg Mach, but I can’t help feeling… you might be destined for something more.”

_ For something more than what? _ Cyril wanted so desperately to ask, but he couldn’t will his lips to move. Instead, he became transfixed on Marianne’s tight-lipped smile.

“The Goddess has a plan for us all, Cyril. It’s why she put us here. I don’t believe she would destine somebody as gifted as you for just being the Lady Rhea’s servant. There’s something else for you out there,” Marianne nodded, assured, “I can feel it.”

_ “Gee,” _ Cyril whispered. He looked back out into the sky, searching the patterns of stars for something — anything — that would show him his destiny. “Thanks, Marianne…”

“No, thank  _ you,” _ she whispered back, “for all you do for the monastery. And… for the faith you instil in me. That no matter how small I may feel, there is some purpose out there for me.”

Cyril smiled at her. He had always liked Marianne.


	7. Found Family

* * *

Saturday, 16th of the Verdant Rain Moon

* * *

“Are you sure this’ll be okay?” Cyril looked up into Marianne’s eyes.

The woman smiled softly down at him, her eyes swimming with a quiet kind of joy. “Of course. Claude asked for you to come here.”

Yet if he had been summoned here by the head of the Golden Deer house himself — if it was Claude who wanted to see him — why did he still feel so anxious?

Cyril liked Claude. Looked up to him. While Marianne and Mercedes were nice to him, cared for him, Claude felt more… homey, somehow. Talking with Claude had the same vibe as talking to a very old friend — an experience that Cyril had never really had. He could let his guard down while talking to Claude, feel his Almyran accent slip out accidentally. The jokes they shared felt different; they felt like they belonged to just the two of them and nobody else.

Cyril had never had a big brother, but he imagined that if he did, it would feel like talking to Claude.

He felt Marianne’s hand pressing gently against his back, and his feet moved awkwardly forward through the doors into the Golden Deer common room. Usually, Cyril only came in here to clean. Not today. Today, Claude sat at one table surrounded by sheets of parchment, tapping a feather quill against the side of his head as he scanned them. Nobody else was around.

“Cyril’s here,” Marianne said, snapping Claude from his reading.

The young man looked up, a dazzlingly white grin lighting his face at once. “Cyril!” he cried, clearing space on the table. He pat the bench next to him with vigour. “Sit, sit!”

Cyril glanced over his shoulder at Marianne, only to see the woman walking away — head down, hands together — towards the doors. He swallowed an anxious lump in his throat and sat. “Are you alright, Claude?”

“I’m great! The question is,” Claude smiled down at him, “are you?”

“Me?”  _ Huh? _ “I’m fine. Same old.”

Claude winked at him. “Not for long. Or, potentially, at least. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about the Golden Deer.”

Confusion clouded Cyril’s mind at once. What could Claude possibly need  _ him _ for to discuss the Golden Deer? “Okay…? What’s up?”

“We’re thinking we need a new member. Someone skilled at archery — maybe with axes too. Somebody who could be another Wyvern Rider, one day.”

Cyril nodded. “Alright. I can ask the Professor if they know anyone, if you’d like.”

Claude threw his head back and laughed. “No, silly! You’ve been playing at archery recently, haven’t you? Or so Ignatz says, at least.”

Cyril felt a quizzical expression cross his own face. “Well, yeah. But I’m not very good at it. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well…" A smile that looked almost bashful crossed Claude's lips. "We'd like you to join the Golden Deer."

Cyril could only stare. “Me?” he asked after a couple of moments. His heart pounded almost audibly, blood rushing in his ears. He didn’t understand. Was this a prank? Claude  _ was _ partial to a prank every now and then. “Why would you want  _ me?” _

Claude smiled broadly, delight dancing in his emerald eyes. “Why  _ wouldn’t _ we want you? You’re talented and hard-working and loyal. And, in a way… you remind me of myself. When I was younger, I felt just like you.”

Cyril felt heat rising against his eyes, his vision becoming blurred. “You’re joking.”

“No,” said Claude, eyes swimming with an almost wistful sort of emotion. “When I was younger, like you, I told myself I could do so much more. I wanted to make things better in any way I could. Fortunately for me, I was born into being the leader of a house, but not everyone is born so lucky. If I can give you that same opportunity, to do the things you want to do, just as I did, then I’d love to. Besides, we could really use your talents.”

“Claude…” Cyril couldn’t manage any other words. His voice grew choked, throat tight.

Claude slid up the bench towards him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “We gotta stick together in this land, brother. It’d be an honour to take you under my wing.”

_“Brother,”_ — an Almyran term of endearment he’d never been close enough to anybody to be called. _“... in this land...”_ — referring to Fódlan, where he’d been snatched away to so young. Cyril let tears fall freely down his face, wiping them away with the back of his hand. “You’re Almyran too? I thought you were from Leicester?” he sniffled.

Claude gave a soft chuckle. “Keep it between you and me, alright?”

He nodded hard. “Promise.”

Claude squeezed onto his shoulder tighter. “So, what do you say? Wanna be a Golden Deer?”

“I’d love to,” Cyril said, receiving an elated laugh in return.

“It’s so good to have you onboard. We even have these for you." And from his other side on the bench, Claude pulled out a small bundle of folded clothes. Cyril would recognise the black and gold garb anywhere: an academy uniform.

He couldn't stop himself. He wrapped his arms around Claude's middle and felt the older boy return the embrace. To feel somebody else so close was so comforting — reminding him of his parents that he'd lost so long ago. He closed his eyes and breathed in Claude's scent; fragrant oils, faintly spicy like the pine needles in his favourite Almyran tea.

"Thank you, Claude."

A whisper into his hair. "Call me Khalid, little brother."


End file.
